Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  ‘Personally,’ Vivien’s voice had been arch, ‘I see your appointment as a failure. You are not fit to instruct our young ladies. Indeed, to me you seem mentally unwell. But despite my advice to the contrary, the Headmaster’s will is absolute, and the governors support him. You will mould yourself to our purpose, Rose, and we’ve set up key strategies to tackle this.’

  Rose had entered a disciplinary phase. During the summer term, her lessons were to be monitored by a member of staff on rotation. Her lesson plans were to be handed in and approved before they were taught. She would be accompanied to the dining hall, the common room, the chapel, and all other locations. She would no longer be helping in the boarding house and she could not speak with any girl without another staff member’s presence. She would attend only Junior assemblies, none for the elder years. Her progress would be reviewed at the end of the term. Rose wondered if this was how it had been for Jane in those last few weeks before her departure – she’d never know without a response to one of her letters. Perhaps Frances had been close to the truth with her obscure comment, Jane can’t even think straight. Was that Rose’s inevitable end, if she stepped out of line again?

  And so Rose had taken up an armchair in the conservatory and stared out at the gardens, as if she had already had her brain knocked out of focus. She was still holding on to the pages of strategies – which she had folded and unfolded many times on the train journey down – staring into the lines of regulations as if they were prison bars across her mind. She hadn’t pushed this one into the pages of The Bell Jar; it felt too serious for that.

  Rose had only been permitted to leave Hope for a stay at the clinic, and its staff was aware of the situation. Rose had seen the nurses glance over as if she were branded with a scarlet letter of disgrace, particularly after she asked one of them whether lobotomies were still legal in the UK.

  ‘You should call your old friends.’ Rose’s mother tried to clear her chest. ‘Go to the pub, like you used to.’

  Like who used to? Rose thought. The younger version of herself, gliding happily through lessons at her previous school, nearly a year ago?

  ‘At least have a haircut, it’s looking very messy.’

  She surveyed her mother, fighting in that frail cage of her body, steadily breaking down. The bond between them was now warped by Caldonbrae’s stronger hold, and it pulled away Rose’s own fibres of tenderness.

  There was no choice. She would have to go back. There was something to be done, with that last inch of fight in her. Rose was grateful for it; otherwise she might dissolve into the fabric of this faded paisley-patterned armchair, here among the hanging plants and semi-comatose patients.

  Rose stared at the letter. She wondered how long the envelope had waited there, gathering dust underneath the door frame during the three-week holiday. At least it sat politely outside the boundary of her flat this time, and not propped up shockingly amongst her things.

  Dear Madam,

  Settle down, now that you’ve been put back in your place. It’s your turn to make a success of this. Everything you care about is in our clutches. Everything will be safe if you can behave. The consequences are clear if you can’t. Know your place, Madam. For heaven’s sake, that’s what you’re being paid for.

  Yours,

  One of Us

  The paper was a better quality than before, as if it had been refreshed by the holiday. But the typed ‘s’ was stamped over again. Rose held the letter away from her, then pulled it towards her and breathed in. It touched a length of her hair with the movement. There was that flowery scent again.

  Rose’s tweed jacket was still damp from the soft splatter of rain between the car and the main doors, the wet on her face either that or her tears. It had been her oddest journey yet, her soul a soft globe balancing in her chest as she floated from the London Underground to the Edinburgh train to the rural Scotland train to the Hope car. The views of the outside had danced across her eyes but she’d absorbed none of it.

  Three days until the beginning of term.

  And this letter was here to remind her of the horror still to come. Would this letter end up folded into one of her favourite books, or flung into the sea air, or handed over as evidence to Vivien? Or should she tape it to the bathroom mirror as a daily reminder to arm herself every morning?

  Yes, Rose thought as she dropped her handbag on top of her suitcase, that’s exactly what she should do. She drew some tape across the bathroom mirror, breaking the strip with her teeth. It pulled on her bottom lip and she flinched. Another clean strip secured the letter. She pulled out one of her lipsticks and wrote underneath, Bethany.

  The envelope she discarded. She knew the culprit would never reveal herself, and the letters might continue until Rose had plastered them all over the mirror, all over her skin, all over her heart, and driven herself mad.

  On the Monday, Rose stood over the row of Upper Sixth wearing their summer silk. They were certainly being difficult today, even without Dulcie. Perhaps they could sense Rose’s loosening grip, accented by the designated observer: a Science teacher at the back, busy with his own work.

  ‘It will be very interesting to hear your thoughts about Medea’s decision here.’ Rose’s voice was almost shrill. ‘Do you think she made the right choice?’

  ‘What,’ Lex pulled a face, ‘in killing her children?’

  ‘It sounds like Medea should have signed a prenuptial agreement, Madam,’ Tash chirruped and the others laughed.

  ‘Yes, or she should have satisfied her husband Jason properly.’

  ‘Girls,’ Rose said firmly, ‘I don’t want you to think in those terms. We need to look at the ending, and consider what the Greek audience might have thought. Remember that Medea is not only a barbarian, but a woman who manages to slaughter the Corinthian king, his daughter, and devastate the Greek hero Jason, all in one day.’

  ‘The Greek audience would have been pretty shocked, then, Madam,’ Lauren nodded.

  ‘And bored,’ Lex muttered.

  ‘Bored?’ Rose shot back.

  Lex smirked, and Tash took up the reins. ‘Honestly, Madam, Medea flying off in a chariot, it’s a bit much. I mean, where is the tragedy here?’

  ‘Good question, Tash. Think about it, girls. Is Medea a good example of Greek tragedy? Does it stand up to, say, Oedipus?’

  ‘Maybe the tragedy is that Medea doesn’t die.’ Tash’s eyes were shrewd. ‘She should have died, instead of the children. And poor Jason could’ve married that young princess!’ Her raised voice caught the Science teacher’s attention and he looked up. Lex noticed and added testily, ‘Does the Headmaster know you’re teaching us this, Madam?’

  Rose turned to her. ‘Yes, Lex, it’s on the curriculum. We had this conversation at the beginning of the year.’

  ‘But does he know the story?’

  ‘I haven’t asked the Headmaster if he knows the ins and outs of Euripides’ plays, no.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does,’ nodded Jenny proudly. ‘He knows everything.’

  ‘Well,’ Lex continued, ‘just as long as you know there’s no need to push your feminist agenda, Madam.’

  Rose hesitated. ‘I don’t have a feminist agenda.’

  ‘No, Madam, of course you don’t,’ Lex smirked. The grim-faced Science teacher leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Oh Madam,’ Tash was grinning. ‘We all heard about your shrieking on Affiliates Day too. Thank goodness this is our last year – things are sorted for us. I feel jolly sorry for the others, having you around cocking things up any minute.’

  The Science teacher let his voice ring out over the class. ‘I don’t think this conversation is entirely appropriate, Madam.’

  Tash jolted in her seat but Lex was already turning around. ‘Yes, Sir, I quite agree.’

  Rose glanced at her book of Euripides, marked with the same inscription as t
he Sophocles. Miss Jane Farrier, Classics 1. The girls couldn’t see, but Rose wouldn’t have cared. Let them think I’m losing it, she thought. Perhaps I am. It was ridiculous to think that she felt closer to Jane – and Bethany – than to anyone in this whole wretched place, but it was the truth.

  ‘Girls,’ Rose cleared her throat, ‘I want us to think about the ending very carefully, and what Euripides might have been trying to say, within the genre of Greek tragedy. Which is the curriculum.’

  ‘Very well, then, Madam.’ Lex straightened her shoulders.

  Rose ignored the scrutinising gaze of her observer and continued to read the last chorus aloud.

  A week later, as the Juniors were noiselessly filing out of the chapel, Rose stepped out of the procession into the small stone quad. She breathed in the light drizzle that fell into the gap; it was nearly May, the outside cold had caught her by surprise.

  ‘Junior assemblies are quite tedious, aren’t they?’ Anthony smiled, waiting for her in the cloister.

  Rose went to join him. ‘Are they?’

  ‘… I just mean that it’s all silly notices – nothing of importance.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you had to accompany me.’ Rose pulled a regretful face. ‘The assembly shouldn’t have been in the chapel, but apparently they needed Founder’s Hall for some event.’

  ‘Yes, the Summer Ball.’

  ‘But that’s in five weeks.’

  ‘They do like to prepare.’ Anthony gave another weary smile. ‘It’s rather ridiculous, all this, isn’t it?’

  Rose hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Having you accompanied everywhere.’

  Rose looked up at him as they moved behind the stream of Juniors. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t see why you can’t be trusted. You’ve been doing a fine job with your classes – in Prudence too. Affiliates Day was just a blip. This place just takes some getting used to, and it must be particularly hard to feel like you’d been kept in the dark for so long.’

  Rose didn’t know what to say, but she felt glad of his kindness all the same.

  ‘Rose,’ Anthony put a gentle hand on her shoulder, ‘it will be fine.’

  She nodded in response. ‘Is there, a way, to … you know … get on with this system? I can’t seem to—’

  ‘We all have our ways of coping, Rose. It just takes time to … settle in. You can always talk to me.’

  Rose found herself nodding, more out of compliance than true understanding.

  ‘So,’ Anthony motioned forward, ‘what’s next, a meeting in House See?’

  ‘Yes, Vivien sent word that I’m to observe some kind of session in there, which might be added to my timetable. She said it was an innovation; I don’t know how long it will take. Sorry to hold you up.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t have first period. If you’re free,’ Anthony suggested warmly, ‘perhaps we could have a cup of tea afterwards?’

  Rose nodded again, reassured.

  At the top of the passage stairs Rose saw two girls turn in an electric movement towards them. With a bracing feeling, she recognised Josie and Clarissa. The older girl was glaring at Rose.

  Anthony moved slightly ahead of Rose, and spoke first. ‘Hello there, girls. Time for lessons, I think.’

  Rose hadn’t realised the two girls were friends; they were years apart. Clarissa looked more beautiful than ever, her cheeks soft with emotion, evidently fully recovered after her illness last term. Josie was a shadow behind the head girl, and neither of them were looking kindly at Rose. Anthony gave them only a passing glance; Rose was grateful for the quiet defence he presented against the pair.

  Seeing Josie, Rose was reminded of Nessa. The new regulations specifically restricted out-of-lesson discussions with the girls. She’d got away with a few extra catch-up sessions last term with Nessa, but could Rose risk it now? She wanted to. Why couldn’t she try this small defiance? Everywhere else she’d be entirely obedient.

  She had a new question for Anthony.

  ‘I’d really like to start helping the university girls, too. You mentioned that that would be part of my role, as did the governors?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anthony stood still at the top of the Great Stairs. ‘Give it time.’

  ‘Oh, is it these new restrictions? Are they worried that—’

  ‘It’s a delicate situation at this time of year,’ Anthony answered gently.

  ‘I see.’ Rose didn’t see. ‘Are you working with any girls at the moment? I’d really like to make a start … perhaps I could follow one of your sessions?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. But,’ Anthony turned along the corridor and Rose followed him, ‘as I say, we’d have a better chance to wait until September. Things are coming to a close here, now, soon.’

  Rose turned her face away, disappointed.

  ‘Bit of a walk, isn’t it – chapel to the north wing?’ Anthony said a moment later, as muffled lessons began behind the closed doors of the first-floor corridor.

  ‘Yes,’ Rose answered dully. ‘There aren’t any shortcuts in this place.’

  ‘There probably are.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve studied the map in the library, trying to work out my bearings if I’m going to stay here.’

  Anthony chuckled. ‘Well, that bodes well. You know …’ he paused for an agonising moment, ‘I, particularly, will be glad to see you settle in here at Hope.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose’s cheeks flushed. ‘Thank you, Anthony.’ She bit her lip, not knowing what else to say. Perhaps those small buds of feeling might thaw out soon enough, and give her another reason to commit herself to Hope.

  Many passageways later Anthony said he’d wait outside House See as Rose went in. She expected the door to slam behind her at the bottom of the steps, but it fell with a soft thud. She knew well the silence of this house, and it soothed her.

  Rose looked across at the dark green day room and its matching velvet sofas. It was full of quiet girls, watching each other.

  About two dozen students were sitting on soft cushions on the floor; Rose recognised her few Lower Sixth Latinists. The tall curtains were drawn and dim lamps dotted around the room were giving off a sensitive glow. But Rose was mesmerised by the object of the students’ attention: several Japanese geisha girls moving about the room, gracefully, slowly, and with furtive smiles. They wore costumes that were beautifully garish and unique, with a thick sash drawn tightly around each waist; their faces were painted white with rosy lips, and their hair tied up in elegant buns.

  One group of students was exploring the craft of a tea ceremony, handling powders with delicate cups or pots of hot water. Another group was watching three girls perform an exquisite dance, exposing their wrists as they took small steps in their wooden shoes. The observing girls were as enthralled as Rose, but none noticed the teacher shudder as she suddenly recognised Ayumi.

  Rose pulled at the latch on the door and dashed up the steps. She didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until she let it out in the hallway, and almost fell into Anthony.

  ‘Are you all right, Rose?’ He tried to take her in his arms. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘I saw –’ She took a moment to gather her words as Anthony’s hands moved to support her.

  A door across the hallway slammed, the main door of House Chastity. Rose looked up at Anthony; whoever had been there a moment before had caused a cleft frown across his forehead. But Rose’s thoughts were frantic.

  ‘Anthony! Is that what they’re here for – the Japanese girls – as instructional geisha girls? Is that what they mean by innovation?’

  ‘Of course not, Rose, there’s much more to it than that … they are our students first and foremost.’ Anthony pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘Look, I don’t get involved with that side of things. You’d have to ask E
mma, or Frances. What about your session?’

  ‘It’s exploitation. Not to mention abuse of their culture. Those girls – some of them are very special; all of them are vulnerable. Is this what they’re worth?’ Rose breathed, her mind racing with what she’d just seen, and Anthony’s stilted reaction. ‘“Innovation” used to mean a good thing!’

  ‘Oh Rose.’ Anthony’s forehead creased further. ‘It still does.’

  Rose stood up properly and Anthony let go of her. ‘No cup of tea for me,’ she added weakly. ‘I’d better just get back to the office.’

  Rose managed to draw encouragement from her classes, and from one particular Junior lesson later that week. The observing Music teacher had nodded off in the corner, the Seconds’ classroom noise apparently nothing to the clash of the percussion or shout of the brass. They’d met Boudicca, the Celtic tribal queen, and argued over the Roman need – as a superpower – to dominate through violence, with Boudicca having no other recourse but to fight back. Rose had checked their young faces and taught them a new word: subjugation. They’d written it down before starting their creative homework: drawing a portrait of the tribal queen with her traditional torc necklace, fiery red hair, and Celtic tartan.

  An hour later in the dining hall, Rose moved her lunch tray behind Emma to let some Intermediates pass. ‘I’ve been meaning to say, I’m worried about my Upper Sixth and their A levels, now that I’ve got the head of department duties. Will Dulcie—’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t.’ Emma moved towards a spot at the end of a staff table. ‘They don’t always take them. They’ll leave after the Ball, and then return for the Thirtieth of June.’

  Rose stopped, her glass of water wobbling perilously. ‘The Sixth don’t take their exams?’

  ‘No, they don’t always need to, since their matches are made.’

  ‘So,’ Rose asked hotly, ‘why on earth have I been teaching them?’